The Weaker Vessel
by inkpot101
Summary: Lothiriel of Dol Amroth was not a fighter or a leader. She was a woman whose life was shaped by the powers of men. A story about the history of a woman at the breaking of an age and the centre of a long awaited storm.
1. Chapter 1: Safekeeping

_January 3015_

Rain drifted down onto Pelennor Field. It hung suspended in the air creating a great bowl of mist over the low plain. The sombre travelling party huddled over their horses. The Swan Knights were proud men in the face of death; in the face of rain they hunched their shoulders.

Prince Imrahil, riding at their head, had no eyes for his forlorn and weary men; his gaze was fixed firmly on the city that loomed ahead of them. The white stone of Minas Tirith shone, even on this gloomy day: its splendour cutting through the mist. Glorious as it was, Imrahil thought, it was not a welcoming prospect. The sea-warmed stone and the light that glinted off the harbour of Dol Amroth could put all the splendours of Gondor's greatest city to shame. All the toil of man was worth nothing without the interplay of nature. But perhaps, Imrahil reflected, that was his elf-blood talking.

He was very conscious of the figure beside him, straining her head to get a good look at this strange and dazzling place. Lothíriel had been suspiciously quiet during the trip from Dol Amroth: it was not a quality she was usually known for. She had been silent, he knew, because she wished to leave him space for his grave thoughts: thoughts about the pirate raids, the homes that needed to be reconstructed, the ships that needed to be rebuild and now, worst of all, having to part from his only daughter to save her from the peril that had befallen the city of her birth. Her quiet was beginning to take its toll on her: she had a quick tongue and sharp wit which seemed to need constant exercise. Her curiosity threatened to overwhelm her composure.

"Minas Tirith," Imrahil said quietly, "It will not be long until we are there."

He glanced at his daughter. She smiled brightly and kept her eyes on the city ahead, "So I see. How imposing it is, I'm not sure I like it at all. It is nothing to Dol Amroth."

"It _is _meant to be imposing, Lothíriel," Imrahil said with a weary air, his daughter never could understand the importance of practicality as well as beauty, "It is a fortress as much as a city."

"Perhaps a more welcoming aspect would encourage more friendship; after all, one only has the desire to attack that which displeases you. I cannot imagine that the sight of a grim fortress pleases anyone."

"Orcs, I should imagine, are rather fonder of a fortress than a palace and yet they would not hesitate at the walls of Minas Tirith because they were afraid of spoiling it."

Lothíriel waved her hand breezily, "Papa, you always use orcs to ruin my arguments. How troublesome you are!"

Imrahil laughed, "Troublesome? My dearest daughter, _I_ do not pick apart the reasoning of men at every given opportunity. And besides, it is your own fault if you design arguments which leave out the inconveniences of reality. Thank heaven you are not one of my counsellors or your whole day would be employed in wit craft and nothing would ever get done."

Lothíriel laughed a laugh that was still high and girlish: a laugh that reminded Imrahil that she was still only sixteen and very young to be leaving home.

They approached the gates of the city which peeled back silently and slowly to let them in. Imrahil gave his daughter what he hoped was an encouraging smile. She returned it falteringly and turned to gaze up at the city in front of her. Her lips parted in awe and Imrahil felt relieved. Life here would be easier for her if she allowed herself to be impressed and humbled. There was no room for a sharp-tongued girl in the court of the Steward.

The knights sat up a little straighter now as they rode past their counterparts from the great City. As the party wended their way up the cold, splendid streets, the local people stood in the doorways watching. Theirs were sober faces, hardened and cosmopolitan: it would take more than a Prince from the provinces to impress these, who dwelt in the very heart of men's greatness. Imrahil hoped, in his heart, that they would be more generous towards his daughter.

Lothíriel's tongue seemed to have retreated. Her face was grave and quiet but she met the gazes of those who she passed steadily. It had never occurred to her that she need fear another person: in her home she had never come to any harm because she, and her family, had been so beloved of her people. She was naïve and could not think why anyone should think ill of her if she did no wrong.

The Steward and his sons were there to meet them in the citadel.

"Hail, Lord Denethor," said Imrahil, after dismounting from his horse. He strode forward and bent to kiss Denethor's proffered hand.

"Imrahil, well met," Denethor mumbled the proper greeting, "You have brought your daughter to my protection as discussed?"

Imrahil nodded, "Aye, my Lord," he moved back to help Lothíriel down from her palfrey and brought her to stand before the steward, "My daughter, Lothíriel."

Lothíriel curtseyed and kissed Denethor's hand, "My Lord and Uncle," she said with all due gravity, "I am so very grateful for your welcome. I pray I will not be too heavy a burden."

Denethor raised her to her feet and cast a look at his two sons who stood by his side, "No burden we cannot bear, I am sure."

The Steward cast a critical eye over his new ward's appearance. It was not favourable. She was too thin and coltish. Her hair was lighter than the Gondorian norm, but this might have been excusable were it not for the wild curls in which it was formed. Rippling hair, straight hair was beautiful in Gondor; this excess of flyaway locks was not. She was pale but had freckles even in the dullness of winter and Denethor could tell that she was probably apt to tan. Her face was not offensive but it was not ideal beauty either: her eyes were darker than Gondorian grey, her brows darker than her hair. The entire thing was too bold. Her nose was good, a little pert at the end but a good length. Her mouth was full but there was a gap between her front teeth and she smiled crookedly: the sign of a witty woman. Denethor hated witty women. He sighed. The girl was a disappointment. Granted she had a fine, slender neck and pretty hands but everything else made her fit squarely outside the beautiful. He exchanged a glance with Boromir.

The Steward returned his gaze to Imrahil, "Will you stay my Lord and eat with us?"

"Alas I cannot," Imrahil's refusal was resolute, "My knights and I have a long journey home and Dol Amroth has been several days without my protection, I can afford to leave it no longer." Imrahil turned to his daughter and embraced her, "Farewell my child! Doubt not that I will come for you at a more fortuitous time."

A tear dripped down Lothíriel's face, "I doubt it not father. You are too soft hearted for a Prince and will miss me sharply ere you leave this city." Her smile was small.

Pressing his hand to her cold cheek, Imrahil kissed his daughter on the head. Wrenching himself away, he returned to his knights who had unloaded Lothíriel's supplies and handed them to the Steward's staff. He leapt onto his horse, allowing himself a lingering look back at his child before following his companions back down the streets of Minas Tirith.

"Such a tender parting warms the heart." Denethor said, kindly to the girl in front of him. "It is always hard to leave your children."

"Harder still to be left," remarked Lothíriel, still looking at the spot where her father had been, "He may return to the life he knows but I must stay and please you."

There was a booming laugh from one son of the steward and a wry chuckle from the other. Denethor smiled tightly.

Boromir, the son who had boomed, inclined his head to Lothíriel, "Is the task of pleasing us so burdensome."

"I know not," replied Lothíriel with her crooked smile, "How hard are my lords to please? Pray tell me, I do not have many resources and would use the ones I have well."

"I am sure all your charms will do well enough," interrupted the Steward, with a pointed glance at his elder son, "Come, it will not do to stand in the rain. Let us go inside."

He swept out his arm and gathered Lothíriel before him. The swish of his black cloak on the stone of the courtyard herded her forward and into the great hall of Minas Tirith. The Steward, his sons and his charge passed through the high and heavy doors together before they slammed shut: sealing off the Hall. The citadel lay still and quiet once more: its impassive stone face betrayed no hint of the rupture that had just gone on there. The silver tree withered in its dusty plot. The stone flags greyed with rain. The great doors to the Steward's Hall remained shut.

* * *

_A.N (9.9.10) : Just edited for typos and inaccuracies but you spot any more please leave a review and let me know - or just leave a review! Either way really...;)_


	2. Chapter 2: Learning

_June 3015_

Lothíriel hummed quietly to herself, leaning a cheek on her hand to stare out of her window and across the plain to Osgiliath. It was six months since she'd made the journey, through the rain and mist, to Minas Tirith. It was six months since she'd seen the sunny walls of Belfalas or smelt the salt sea air. She was watching a group of soldiers make their way back across the plain, their silver armour glinting in the summer sun and among them, she knew, were her cousins Boromir and Faramir who'd set off two days before to subdue an orc raid on the riverside city.

"They are back," she remarked idly to Alhraed, her companion.

Alhraed, a middle aged woman of slender build and height, looked up from her sewing, "Who are back my lady?"

Lothíriel turned from the window and leant, easily, against the sill, "The soldiers. The company that went with my cousins to fight."

Alhraed stood and put her embroidery on her stool. She scurried to the window and leant past her young charge. "Why so they are! And I am right sure that's the Steward's sons riding in front," she squinted her eyes, "Yes, I can tell by their plumes."

"You are better than most armourers of the city, Alhraed," teased Lothíriel, "There's not many men as can keep a track of plumes and armour like you. You should run the bets at the tournaments."

The older woman turned to Lothíriel without smiling, "Aye, my lady," she muttered, dusting the shoulders of the girl's gown, "And you'd do better to take note. My lord Denethor will expect you to know the armour of his sons, that one day you may be able to greet them into the city properly."

Alhraed sighed and glanced out of the window again to watch as the soldiers were admitted to the city. A good girl, which her charge was not, would have called her attention to the arrival of her cousins sooner, that she might be dressed and prepared to greet them. Lothíriel never understood the importance of such things. She was quite the most hopeless Princess that Alhraed had dealt with. It was all very well for Lord Denethor to appoint her as the girl's guide through life but guide as she may Alhraed found it hard to steer the girl in the right direction. Were she not fond of the girl she would give her up to her uncle as a hopeless case.

Lothíriel waved her hand at Alhraed's worry, "My cousins will not mind if I greet them in the Hall or at the gate, and I would greatly prefer to meet them in the Hall since they are bound to be dreadfully messy at the gate."

"It is not your cousins I worry about, my lady," said Alhraed, "It is your uncle whose opinion matters. You must remember that you are bound to him for protection and t'would give no-one happiness if you gave him displeasure."

Lothíriel was silent and stood still as Alhraed picked up a comb to drag through her tangled locks. The older woman tugged the comb through and braided and pinned some sections efficiently.

"I do not wish to displease my uncle," Lothíriel said aloud, "But I do sometimes wish he would go to more pains to please me. I do not mean to be ungrateful but he is so stern with me all the time! Sometimes I apologise for a wrong I have not committed, and _then _he seems angrier with me than ever."

"Your uncle _is _a stern man" Alhraed sighed, "But tis not up to you to change that. You forget he does you great service in keeping you: for you are no use to anyone. Do not give me that look!" she chuckled at Lothíriel's mock reproachful glare, "I just mean that the favour is all on his side and you must please him best you can."

Looking over her charge one more time Alhraed, decided that Lothiriel was at least acceptable to be seen. The girl's day dress was not particularly formal: it had close fitting sleeves and little embroidery, but it was neat enough and the deep, rich green gave the gown a little more luxury. She pinched Lothíriel's cheeks to let the colour into them and kissed her on the forehead.

"Do I look well do you think?" Lothíriel asked fluttering her eyelashes, "Even though the men will look and smell atrocious."

"Aye, very well my lady. Run now."

"Run Alhraed? Run?" Lothíriel walked to the door and tossed her companion the most contemptuous look she could muster, which was not contemptuous at all, "I am a _lady_ and must please the stony Denethor._ I_ shall glide." Lothíriel's mouth twitched, threatening to give away her teasing with a grin.

Alhraed rolled her eyes at her and sat down to her embroidery, listening as Lothíriel's footsteps patter away with the definite sound of a brisk run.

Lothíriel slowed into a quick, but graceful, walk as she neared the Steward's Hall. A rather alarming pack of women was assembled in the hallway in front of her, whispering among themselves and craning their heads to get a look at the soldiers who had presumably just entered to receive their audience with Denethor.

Lothíriel could not help thinking that had she just trudged back from a horrid battle the last thing she would want was a meeting with her uncle. It was not the most auspicious reward for such a service.

"My lady!" One of the women had broken free from the herd and hurried towards her, "My lady, the men have arrived and the women cannot enter until you do. Please make haste for there are some among them who are most anxious to see their sons and husbands!"

"Oh," a sharp pang of guilt stung Lothíriel, she had not thought of the women who would come to see if they had been made widows. She had thought only idly of her own reluctance to make the journey to the Steward's Hall. Even now she was a little resentful that the burden had been placed on her. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I was…distracted – come, let us go now."

She bustled through the women, that she might lead them with all due propriety into the Hall.

"Wait!" the woman who had hastened Lothíriel before, recalled her attention, "Your gown, my lady, there is dust on the train – let me brush it quickly."

Blushing, Lothíriel watched the woman sweep the dust that had collected on the hem of her gown into her hand and then clap it discreetly into the corner of the hallway.

She smiled sheepishly, "Thank you…"

The woman, who had a pretty round face and seemed only a couple of years older than Lothíriel herself, supplied her name eagerly, "Lady Edlyn."

Lothíriel nodded and then noticed the other women waiting impatiently. Trying to look as contrite as possible she spared them a nod before drawing herself up and striding smoothly into the Steward's Hall.

The vast marble hall was splendid, even on such a grim occasion. Denethor had risen from the diminutive Steward's Chair and come forward to meet his troops. His darkly clothed back was all that was visible to Lothíriel but she could clearly see his proud bearing and could imagine well the expression of authority on his face. Beyond him, tiny in the great Hall, were the company of soldiers. They were, as Lothíriel had anticipated, filthy and all looked as though they'd rather a bath and the company of their wives to the frigid reception of the Steward. But at least they seemed to have taken off their heavy helms and armour. Most of them perked up as the women swept into the room and Denethor looked behind him to see the point of their newly lit gazes.

"My lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth!" he exclaimed in a way that betrayed no anger but made Lothíriel feel instantly rebuked for her lateness, "You have come to welcome this company?"

"Aye, my lord," Lothíriel smiled nervously at the men assembled in front of her.

Denethor extended his hand to her and placed hers in it. He drew her level with himself so that she was closer than ever to the men. Knowing it was silly but unable to prevent it, Lothíriel felt a blush rise in her cheeks. The young soldiers in front of her unnerved Lothíriel in the same way that the presence of most strange men unnerved her adolescent state: she did not deceive herself that she was a great beauty but knew that youth coupled with an acceptable appearance and a prestigious title was all the encouragement that some men needed to see her in a more favourable light.

And, as Denethor took her along the lines of soldiers so that she could do her duty of thanking them prettily for their service, Lothíriel knew that it was pointless to deny to herself her own fascination with this alien sex. In Dol Amroth she had been coddled by her family and remained unexposed to the great functions of state and thus had remained naïve as to the power of men. Here, in Minas Tirith, she dined every night with male courtiers, her uncle's advisors, her cousins' friends and was constantly reeled out for the numerous functions of state in which she was supposed to partake. She was beginning to realise that men were not only strange and different but also that she was to presume them her betters: it was not a concept she was particularly comfortable with.

Still, she played her part prettily enough. Denethor would lead her gently from soldier to soldier and Lothíriel, trying not to think about where the blood stains on their person may have come from, would utter variations on the sentence, "We thank you for your pains" and bestow the man with a curtsey. She began to wish she had given Alhraed time to change her gown as she noticed more than one eye-line travel down the front of it as she curtseyed.

Eventually and with blessed relief, Lothíriel listened to Denethor inviting the soldiers to avail themselves of the food which had been set out for them in the Lesser Hall. The women, having been introduced to the greeting ceremony by their highest female representative, as Lothíriel realised she'd become, were also invited to take company with their husbands. Lothíriel watched them leave.

Suddenly a terrible cry tore through the genial chatter of the departing men. The woman who had helped Lothíriel before, the Lady Edlyn, who had been craning her head to look for someone as Lothíriel had delivered thanks to the soldiers, seemed to have fallen into a faint and was being supported by a pair of the Steward's servants.

"What is the matter?" Lothíriel asked.

Faramir, who was stood closest to her, whispered in her ear, "It is her husband. He has been killed. I expect it is the shock."

Denethor hastened to the unfortunate woman and exchanged a few words with the servants holding her. Then he turned to the soldiers, "Continue, I will send the lady to the Houses of Healing."

The chatter had died into a murmer which smacked of rumour and the soldiers and their ladies filed out of the hall. Lothíriel watched the servants carry away poor Lady Edlyn.

Boromir addressed his father in a tense tone, "Will we not dine with them?"

Denethor, who had been muttering instructions to a servant, turned to his son, "I think not. Would you eat with a rabble of soldiers my son? No, let them take their way and we'll take ours."

Boromir's jaw clenched, "My lord, those men have fought for us. Surely we can spare them our company?"

"I will not discuss this with you," Denethor indicated the table in the middle of the Hall which was being prepared for them, "Sit. We shall eat together. My lady, do join us."

Lothíriel could not help but feel a prickle of annoyance that Denethor still invited her to his table as a guest rather than assume her presence as a relative but lowered her head and poured the drinks as Alhraed had instructed her to do. It was custom to serve the men and Lothíriel not only poured their drinks but filled their plates, receiving a kindly thanks from her cousins and a condescending smile from her uncle.

When all was done, Lothíriel took her place. This too was important for Lothíriel as a family member of more remote degree could not sit by her male relatives without a female chaperone or a male member of her immediate family. Her cousins were deemed eligible suitors and thus it was not allowed in the same way that were she at a feast, un-chaperoned, with a group of male friends it would be highly improper: impossible, Lothíriel reflected. And so, Lothíriel took a seat at the end of the table, an uncomfortable distance from her companions, but still included within the family circle. She sat at one end of the rectangular table, opposite her uncle, whilst her cousins sat facing each other at right-angles to Denethor and herself but closer to their father's end of the table. Lothíriel would not have minded but it did make conversation rather painful.

The air was sharp as Boromir raised his glass, "To success at Osgiliath."

The party raised their glasses and Lothíriel gladly returned the smiles of her cousins.

Her uncle was grimmer, "For now," he muttered into his glass.

Lothíriel hurriedly turned her attention to her plate as Boromir and his father began a muted argument over the defence of Osgiliath. This was not an uncommon occurrence: orc raids were becoming more and more frequent and Boromir and Denethor, though intensely loyal to one another, had very different ideas about how to approach the problem. While both agreed it needed to be tackled, Boromir was always more optimistic, more convinced of the glory of Gondor than his father. Denethor's pessimism or realism as he liked to see it, often antagonised his son. Lothíriel had learnt to keep out of these debates, as had Faramir who avoided any chance of upsetting the father who held him in muted contempt.

"And how have you been, my lady?"

The quiet question diverted Lothíriel's attention from her quest to cut the rather over cooked meat on her plate.

She looked up at Faramir's grave face, "I have been quite well, thank you sir. I hope you are in good health after your trip?"

Her cousin chuckled and tore some bread, "You have a propensity for making everything sound light-hearted and trivial. A military objective to subdue a horde of murderous orcs sounds like nothing more than a visit to a kindly aunt when you speak of it!"

Lothíriel grinned before assuming a haughty expression, "Firstly sir, do be so polite as to answer my question and secondly, I don't trivialise things – I _civilise _them. I can't very well ask 'Cousin dearest I do hope you are not missing any limbs after your most recent killing venture' can I?"

"Certainly not, my apologies," Faramir took a sip of wine, "I am quite well."

"Yes," said Denethor, unexpectedly, giving his youngest son a dark look, "Not a scratch on you. You see, my lady, Faramir knows how to look after himself."

Catching the resentful undertone but refusing to acknowledge it, Lothíriel smiled, "I should think so my lord! My cousin Faramir, it is a testament to your skill that you escaped unscathed – surely you must be a fearsome warrior indeed for it seems no orc could come near you!"

"And had my son come home covered in scratches you would have said that the battle scars proved his worth. You seek always to please, my lady," Denethor smiled tightly at his niece, "I am sure Faramir is grateful for your attentions."

A strained hush descended on the table. Lothíriel held her knife and fork still, awaiting further attack. In the end it was Boromir who strode in as usual where Faramir and Lothíriel were too apprehensive to speak.

He swallowed the meat he'd been slowly chewing throughout the exchange and turned to Lothíriel at the end of the table, "I think we should all be grateful for my lady Lothíriel's attentions," he declared jovially, "she sits and smiles at us even though we are a mess and must offend her. Tell me, my lady, is it our looks or our smell that offends your delicate senses the most."

"No doubt both are equally delightful to our little Princess," Denethor's smile looked more like a grimace.

"Your manners, sir," Lothíriel countered cheekily, blithely ignoring the Steward's remark, "There are crumbs in your beards."

That elicited a laugh from her cousins but her uncle stood abruptly, bumping the table with his knees so that the food rolled on their plates. Lothíriel, Boromir and Faramir rose out of courtesy.

"I think I will retire," Denethor said, "Please continue. My lady Lothíriel, I leave the women in your charge. I trust you will know what to do."

And with that Denethor left the table and strode out of the Hall, leaving the younger members of his household in uncomfortable silence.

"More wine?" Lothíriel offered to cover the gap of her uncle's absence.

Her cousins nodded. When she had poured her own drink and sat back in her own chair Lothíriel forced herself to ask, "What _am_ I supposed to do with the women?"

"Just say farewell to them when they are finished in the Lesser Hall," supplied Faramir kindly, "Boromir and I will go with you in a minute: we have to give thanks to our comrades."

"We should have eaten with our comrades," said Boromir, his eyes still fixed on the way his father had taken out of the hall.

"Are they well?" Lothíriel asked, "The soldiers, I mean. Were many killed?"

Boromir shook his head, "No, not many. It was only a skirmish."

"Lady Edlyn's husband died," said Lothíriel, "I hope she will be alright."

"Her husband was a good man and soldier," Boromir sighed and rubbed his forehead, "I should not have ordered the attack in the way I did. Father was right, it was rash."

"It seemed best at the time. There was a large number: action needed to be taken," Faramir leant across the table and grasped his brother's slumped shoulder, "Do not dwell on this."

Lothíriel looked between her two cousins and fancied for a moment that Boromir might cry. However, he looked up to take a drink a minute later and his face was dry. Lothíriel reprimanded herself: grown men did not cry. She was moved however to see her two cousins, whom she held to be mighty and powerful, overcome by emotion for a friend and comrade. And yet she could not share in their feelings. She was cut off from them because they had experienced hardship such as she could never know: she felt guilty that they had to fight and she did not. It was hard to be in debt to others all the time.

Boromir shook himself and seemed to recover that bear-like strength with which Lothíriel had come to associate him, "So Lady Lothíriel," he resumed, "What have you been doing with yourself without us here to amuse you?"

"Hmm," Lothíriel pretended to think, "I read, I embroider, I walk in the gardens when it is fine, I sulk in my room when it is not, and I spend every evening indulging in scintillating conversation with your father."

The sarcastic insult to the Steward of Gondor slipped out of her mouth before she could restrain it. Blushing, she bit her lips and hoped she would not be reprimanded.

"My lady," said Boromir solemnly, "I am so very sorry."

Faramir, taking the cue from his brother, allowed himself to snort with laughter, "A princess' duty I'm afraid."

"I seem to be accruing a lot of those. It is taxing work being looked after by other people," Lothíriel sighed, "My waiting lady informed me bluntly that I am useless this morning! How awfully dull it is being so very useless and so very called upon to make oneself of use. It is hard for us poor females to tell if we are serving girls or women of leisure!"

"Which would you prefer to be?" asked Boromir over the rim of his cup.

"I am whatever anyone wants me to be!" declared Lothíriel, closing her eyes and laying a hand on her breast dramatically. She opened one eye and peeked at her cousins, "Only don't ask me to be a soldier – I should hate to come home looking as frightful as you."

"I cannot see you wielding a sword, my lady," admitted Faramir.

"Although you could probably talk an orc to death," remarked Boromir dryly.

"My brother Elphir once said that," Lothíriel reflected, "But my brother Erchirion told him that the orc would get so tired of my prattling that it would chop my head off to make me quiet."

"Well, I have never known Amrothos to keep opinions on scenarios such as these to himself," said Boromir, "What did he say?"

Lothíriel frowned, "He said that an orc wouldn't stop to talk and would kill me as soon as look at me. I must say that I think that is the most likely outcome."

The brothers laughed and so did Lothíriel. She missed her true brothers dearly but these older protectors would do for now. They were, at least, a wonderful relief after the strictness of her uncle. She felt an overwhelming bout of homesickness followed immediately by overwhelming gratitude for the men who were trying to make her more at ease in their strange world. The laughter echoed around the white hall.

When it died Faramir turned to Lothíriel, "Are you happy, my lady?"

Lothíriel seriously considered her situation. She was sat at a table with two of the great men of Gondor, who were deliberately trying to lighten her mood. She was cared for by a lovely waiting woman whose honesty she treasured. She wasn't lying in the Houses of Healing mourning a dead husband. She wasn't trying to rebuild a ruined home in Dol Amroth.

"Yes," she replied resolutely, "Yes, I believe I am."


	3. Chapter 3: A Good Deed

_June 3015_

Every day, between the hours of four and six in the evening, Lothíriel was allowed to wander alone through the citadel. She had gained this freedom by begging her uncle for a little time to herself, without Alhraed, not because she disliked the company of that lady, but because whilst she enjoyed being in some way active in mind or body at all hours of the day; her older companion grew weary at this time and preferred to lie down. She had tried to present Denethor with the case in the light that she was concerned for her companion but knew full well that he'd probably guessed that it was to alleviate her own boredom that Lothíriel wished for this time free of restraint. She was not allowed to go far. The Steward's grounds were the extent of Lothíriel's wanderings: indeed, she had not been through the lower parts of the city since she had first ridden through them with her father.

This evening, after dismissing the wives of the soldiers and overseeing the clearance of the Lesser Hall, Lothíriel had stridden out, not into the gardens as was usually her wont; but into the impressive forecourt of the citadel where the white tree remained withered in its patch of dusty earth. It was a balmy summer evening and the city was not loud but murmured with the low seductive sound of people who were not hard at work. Blue, rippling skies, which reminded Lothíriel of the still water in the harbour of Dol Amroth, stretched far across the Pelennor and to the black mountains beyond.

Walking past the guards, who flanked the entrance to the hall, Lothíriel proceeded to the very edge of the forecourt and leaned against the wall, thrusting her head out over the city. The streets of the tier below, which housed many noblemen and rich merchants, were fairly empty but the streets below that were full of people. They quietly sat outside their homes and played games; children raced through the streets; women brought their babies to suckle on the doorstep so that they could converse with their neighbours and men stood in doorways with mugs of beer or coins haggling and arguing good naturedly. Lothíriel leant her head on her hands and watched them, wondering if any of them would look up and see her. She supposed not. Though Denethor and her father made a fuss over her and her safety as an important member of the Royal Household, Lothíriel doubted if any in the city below her would care a button if the strange princess who had been hidden from them for months came to harm.

Lothíriel pursed her lips and curled her fingers around a loose stone. She picked it up and held it out at arm's length. Its position was precisely over the head of one of the soldiers on the lower was directly beneath her. A sudden longing to drop it and see it ricochet off his helm came over her and, for a second, her fingers loosened around the little piece of Minas Tirith with wicked glee. It would at least, she thought, make someone aware of her presence.

Before she could act on this strange impulse though, she heard a noise behind her. The doors to the Steward's Hall had opened and shut and now a small party of women, heads covered and dressed in black were making very slow progress across the courtyard. As they were all dressed the same Lothíriel found it hard to distinguish and count the individuals but she gathered that there were about five of the them: four of them seemed to be supporting a central figure who was hunched over and barely able, it seemed, to move.

Still clasping the stone between her hands, behind her back like a child caught with something suspicious, Lothíriel wondered, rather stupidly, why the party seemed to be making its way towards her before realizing that she was stood very near the gate down to the next tier, which must be their destination. None of them seemed to have noticed her yet and Lothíriel was just deliberating whether or not it would be frowned upon if _she _approached _them_, when the bowed little woman at the centre of the group seemed unable to support herself any longer and collapsed into a small heap of black cloth. Feeling unable to ignore the situation any longer, Lothíriel bustled over to the women.

"What has happened?" she asked, feeling rather superfluous and silly.

Whilst the others ignored Lothíriel and tended to the woman on the ground, the oldest of the group, a wrinkled and matronly, looked up at Lothíriel in surprise, "My daughter-in-law, she is unwell and has had a bad day." She glared exasperatedly, "Well! Why do you just stand there? Run to the Houses and get a Healer – quickly girl! Make haste!"

Lothíriel obeyed without question, unwillingly to get on the wrong side of this formidable woman and desperate to help. She had been to the Houses of Healing but once before to attend her uncle whilst he visited some wounded troops but she knew the way. Running without elegance and clutching her gown up out of her way, Lothíriel muddled her way through the stone corridors and verandas until she reached the Houses.

The nearest woman Lothíriel recognised from her previous visit. She sought in her memory for the name but found it slipping away. Instead she laid a hand on her arm and looked into the woman's face imploringly, "Please Healer, there's a woman ill in the citadel – will you attend her?"

"Oh my lady!" The woman's face lit up in recognition, "Do you remember me? You spoke to me when you were here last – do you remember Ioreth?"

Lothíriel nodded and clutched at the stitch in her side, "Aye, Ioreth, I remember you well. Will you come?"

The Healer glowed with delight at being remembered, "Yes, yes, if my lady wills it."

Ioreth followed Lothíriel back out into the courtyard, chattering merrily. Lothíriel wanted to make her hurry up but did not think she should chivvy a middle aged woman into a run nor did she want to upset her. When they got outside the group was still huddled on the floor and were now accompanied by some of the more concerned citadel guards. Catching sight of the princess, the guards stepped to one side and inclined their heads in respect.

The mother-in-law frowned up at them, upset that they had allowed their attention to be diverted from her son's daughter and frowned haughtily at the girl who now approached her. "Well? Have you a Healer?" she snapped.

"Yes," Lothíriel replied nervously and gestured Ioreth to attend the lady.

Ioreth knelt on the floor and murmured soothing words to the unconscious figure lying there. Softly she drew back the woman's veil and head dress to reveal her pretty, but terribly pale and red-rimmed, face.

A flash of recognition went through Lothíriel, "Oh! It is my Lady Edlyn."

"Of course it is," the mother-in-law said impatiently, watching Ioreth's ministrations carefully.

Indeed it was the pretty Lady Edlyn who had, just that afternoon, brushed the dust off Lothíriel's dress and been informed of her husband's death. Even now, while Lady Edlyn was faint and ill on the floor, Lothíriel could not help feeling a spasm of envy for that woman's perfect Gondorian beauty. Her pale, symmetrical features and raven black hair were lovely and Lothíriel would put money on her eyes being a wonderful, clear grey when they opened: which they did, a minute later, when Ioreth passed a bottle of strong smelling liquid under the poor woman's nose.

Lady Edlyn's eyes fluttered open and she groaned weakly.

"Hush, child," said the mother-in-law in a voice a lot more tender than that she had reserved for Lothíriel.

Ioreth was now checking the woman's pulse, "Not too fast…" she muttered, "That is good." She looked up at Lady Edlyn's anxious, Lothíriel supposed they were, kinswomen, "I tended the Lady Edlyn earlier," Ioreth said, "She suffers from no strong ailment – just that of shock and loss. I think it best to lay her down somewhere quickly."

"She must be returned to the Houses of Healing," the mother-in-law declared imperiously but Ioreth shook her head.

"Beg pardon ma'am but the Houses are need to treat the soldiers tonight. We were able to find her a couch earlier but there are no beds for her to pass the night on. Can you not take her home?"

Lady Edlyn, her head now in her mother-in-law's lap, moaned loudly and shook her head.

The mother-in-law looked up at Ioreth sadly, "She will not go home. She cannot bear to be there without her husband…my son," her voice cracked, "We are to take her to mine."

Hesitantly Lothíriel raised her voice, "On what level do you live madam?"

"The fourth," the matron bristled slightly, "But only as I am a widow. My son lived on the fifth."

Sensing the woman's defensiveness, Lothíriel back tracked hastily, "I meant no offence ma'am…but I live closer by you see. Would you permit her to stay awhile with me until she has recovered her strength? I would not object to you staying either." She added quickly.

The woman swept her haughty eyes up and down Lothíriel's figure, "And you have room for us?" she said doubtfully.

Lothíriel nodded, "Oh yes, I will just have to ask my uncle…but I cannot see why he would mind." She caught the eye of one of the guards who hovered around the little group and smiled falteringly at him, "Could you tell my uncle that I am going to take the Lady Edlyn to the room next to mine to lie down awhile?" she asked, "She need not stay if he will not permit it but for now I think it necessary." Lothíriel looked at the woman on the ground and bit her lip, "Tell my uncle…tell him I am very sorry and it shall not happen again. I think he will be a little cross with me."

"Very good, my lady." The guard bowed and strode briskly to the palace, signalling for another of the soldiers to gently pick up Lady Edlyn and follow Lothíriel to the chamber where she was to be placed.

"Ioreth will you accompany us? We made need you further." Lothíriel said turning back to the party and gesturing for them to follow her.

"Of course, my lady!" Ioreth replied eagerly, her chest swelling with pride, "To think," she said to the mother-in-law, "The Lady Lothíriel requesting my services above all others!"

It was not strictly true, Lothíriel thought: she would have settled for any capable Healer but she said nothing, just smiled, and led them through the small side entrance into the palace. She did not think her uncle would entirely approve of her taking in the woman without asking his permission, much less storming into the great entrance of the palace with them in tow. She could not help overhearing, with a blush, the women's conversation behind her.

"The Lady Lothíriel?" whispered the-mother-in-law, agitation creeping into her voice.

"Why, to be sure ma'am!" replied Ioreth jollily, "And your daughter-in-law to be given a room next to the princess herself – now that's an uncommon honour!"

The-mother-in-law let out a low moan of mortification, "But I had no idea," she said, "I thought she was serving-girl being idle about the terrace."

Alhraed would have something to say about that, Lothíriel thought darkly, she always did say that her charge dressed much too coarsely and plainly. Though Lothíriel knew this was true, she also maintained that it was not entirely her fault – much of her finery had had to be left in Dol Amroth when she left for her journey was one of flight and expediency and the clothes she had needed had had to be hardy.

Still, Lothíriel was a little miffed that she didn't seem to project as regal an air as she supposed. At home it had been easy because she had been so comfortable and confident; here her nerves were jumpy and she was losing what little grace she had. It was no wonder that her uncle despaired of her. After the shambles today, Lothíriel swore she would never let herself be betrayed by her discomfort like that again.

They reached the chamber next to Lothíriel's and crowded in. Lothíriel directed the guard to lay Lady Edlyn upon the bed and then dismissed him, apologising profusely for his pains. The chamber was small and was generally reserved for the servant of the inhabitant of Lothíriel's room, thus the two were connected by a small door. But, as Alhraed occupied the other servant's room on the other side of Lothíriel's and the princess had no other personal attendants, it had lain empty since her arrival. The room was light and airy but a little worn. Lothíriel set about pulling the dust covers off the furniture so that Lady Edlyn's family could sit down.

"My lady! What is going on here?" Alhraed, who had obviously heard the commotion, stood in the door looking around at the general clamour and chaos.

"Oh Alhraed, thank heavens you are here!" Lothíriel gave her friend a beseeching look, "I am trying very hard to do a good deed but it is so very difficult! I feel guilty not content – do you think my uncle will mind?"

Alhraed looked around the room sceptically, with her hands on her hips, "Oh I dare say he'll have a thing or two to say about it. What are you doing girl?"

"It is Lady Edlyn. She collapsed in the courtyard of the citadel and must lie down awhile. I said she could come in." Lothíriel leaned close to Alhraed and took her hand, "Will you help me? I am not accustomed to being good and know not what to do."

Alhraed's birdlike face split in two as she laughed, "Aye! No good has come of you yet. Look how you've dirtied your gown!"

"My Lady Lothíriel?" A tall servant in the livery of the Steward jostled his way into the already crammed room. He pushed his way to Lothíriel and addressed her in a serious tone, "My Lord Denethor wishes to speak with you."

"I thought he might…" Lothíriel muttered, "It seems he does have a thing or two to say to me," she said good-humouredly to Alhraed, "And possibly a thing or two more after that I'd wager. Excuse me ladies I must to my uncle – please avail yourselves of whatever you need. My woman Alhraed is here to help."

She ducked out of the room impossibly flustered, her hair even bushier and her hands sweating. The fast pace at which the servant she was following walked did nothing for her already dishevelled appearance and, as she was brought to the great oak door of the Steward's solar, Lothíriel thought that she would like nothing more than to lie down somewhere and weep to cheer herself up.

The servant presented her diligently, "My Lady Lothíriel, your lordship."

Denethor was sat behind a huge wooden desk which was laden with parchments, scrolls and other such tools of bureaucracy. To make matters worse his eldest son was lounging in a chair to his right hand side, an infuriating amused smile hovering around his lips. Lothíriel pulled herself together with as much dignity as she could and thanked her stars that her cousin Faramir had not also been invited along to witness what she was sure would be her humiliation.

"My Lord Denethor," she said blithely, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and gave him a pretty little curtsey. "You sent for me."

Denethor's face was inscrutable, "Yes."

Lothíriel looked from Boromir to Denethor expecting one of them to speak and when neither did, she said, "I presume you wanted to speak to me about the incident involving Lady Edlyn?"

"I do have some questions on that point, yes." Said Denethor in a dry voice.

Smiling as brightly as she could, Lothíriel said, "Ah!"

It was not particularly intelligent but then she didn't think she was expected to be. Still Denethor did not speak and Lothíriel realised that it was going to be up to her to spill the whole story: her uncle refused to unravel it.

"The Lady Edlyn fell ill in the courtyard my lord. I thought it best to bring her in and she is currently recovering in the chamber next to my own, attended by the Healer Ioreth. I ask your permission to let me look after her until she is well enough to return home."

"Ah so you do need my permission," Denethor smiled but there was little humour in it – or if there was Lothíriel could not help feeling that it was at her expense, "I was under the impression that you were free to act as you will: run around the citadel and invite strangers into my palace. But you do need my permission, that is good, I was thinking of handing the Stewardship over to you."

Lothíriel blushed deeply, "I am truly sorry my lord, but there was no time. She was unconscious on the flags and night is drawing in!" She gestured feebly out of the solar window.

Boromir pulled himself up in his chair and looked imploringly at his father, "She was only trying to help, my lord. My lady has done a good turn," he grinned at Lothíriel, "Though perhaps a little imprudently."

Denethor softened at his son's words, "Yes…a good turn. The lady is too ill to be moved now I suppose?"

"I have been told it would not be advisable," Lothíriel replied cautiously.

The Steward shuffled some of the papers on his desk to no real effect and fixed his niece with a penetrating stare which impressed the importance of his next words upon her, "Then you must keep her. This will not happen again my lady: I will not have the people of Gondor thinking that my niece is little more than an upstart running errands for other people. You are a princess and have a higher function. You especially will presume nothing of me and will always defer to my command and advice in future. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord."

Denethor's taut smile stretched with effort into one evidently meant to look indulgent and fond. He rose from his desk and approached Lothíriel, "That is well then," he said kindly, kissing Lothíriel's forehead, "Back to your patient, little nurse. She is in your charge now. My son will accompany you."

Boromir looked up at his father in surprise and Lothíriel also wondered why she needed chaperoning to her own chamber. There were staff all over the place to watch and assist her. It seemed a little unnecessary. Nevertheless she took Boromir's proffered arm and together they left the solar.

Walking was a little awkward. Boromir was very tall and although Lothíriel was not a diminutive woman, she was still only sixteen and there was such a difference in their heights and strides that the pace had to be slowed to a ridiculously slow one.

"I think I got away pretty lightly," Lothíriel remarked.

"Do not be so sure," Boromir smirked, "The lady is in your charge now, my father said. He means that – you will have to care for her by yourself and expect nothing from the household."

Lothíriel scowled and changed the subject, "Do you know anything of her? Lady Edlyn, I mean."

"Pretty. Nice hair, nice eyes, nice…Oh but I cannot say that in front of my little princess now can I!" Boromir mocked.

"Are all men rakes or just you?" Lothíriel said with devastating unconcern. "I meant what is her character? Her history?"

Boromir shrugged, "She enjoys being very pretty and has always been very pretty."

"But you must know _something _of her other than her looks." Lothíriel sighed with exasperation, "Did you know that when women discourse of men they so not dwell on their physical attributes all the time – they admire their kindness or generosity. Men are ever focused on the fleeting pleasure of the moment not the endurance of certain qualities through time."

"Careful my lady, that speech smacks of bitterness. You are yet only sixteen and lack the years for such decided opinions – and the experience to form them."

"And yet you make no effort to change my mind or prove me wrong," Lothíriel teased, "So, to give you a chance to redeem yourself, I shall ask you again: what is the Lady Edlyn's character and history."

Boromir groaned, clenching his eyes shut in a grimace, "Does my lady never stop?"

"Never. Not until my lord tells me the truth."

"We draw upon the chamber there is no time."

"Then you must be succinct."

"Argh! She is pleasant enough and the youngest daughter of a nobleman. She married below herself, her husband being only a soldier, after her father died. Does that please my lady Lothíriel?"

"It does well enough," Lothíriel bit her lip and glanced nervously at the chamber which was heaving with activity, "I suppose you do not want to come in and pay the lady your respects?"

Boromir positively barked with laughter, "No my lady! Come in and interfere with women's bustle? I would not dare!"

He took his leave with a nod and turned on his heel down the marble hallway. Lothíriel sighed and braced herself to re-enter the chamber. A hush descended on the women as she entered and they looked up at her expectantly.

"The Steward extends his welcome to you all," she said, smiling as brightly as she could.

That evening the women, the mother and sisters-in-law of the Lady Edlyn, took their leave of Lothíriel and wended their way home through the city streets. Ioreth had been dismissed and Alhraed had collapsed on her bed. Lothíriel was left along with the patient.

Lady Edlyn had slept since she had been put in the chamber, her face pale and cold and her eyelids occasionally fluttering. Ioreth had advised plenty of rest and had left a strengthening broth to warm over the tiny bedroom fireplace. Essentially, she had told Lothíriel, there was nothing wrong with the lady except grief and shock and that a few days of kind care would put her right. Lothíriel hoped it was so. She felt a strong attachment to the lady who had taken care of her that morning and wished to see her well again.

Not wanting to leave her alone, Lothíriel had sat up by the lady's bedside all night and it was only as the guard outside changed over at one in the morning that she felt herself nodding off. Her chin drooped onto her breath and the book she was trying in vain to read slipped from her hand. Finally the exhausted girl surrendered herself up to sleep.

What felt like mere seconds later, although it was a matter of hours according to the blue light of the early rising sun which poured through the chamber window, Lothíriel was awakened by the sound of Lady Edlyn stirring in her bed. Lothíriel's sleep had been restless and shallow and her eyes were hot and bleary. Blinking her tiredness away she took the lady's cold hand and whispered soothingly to her. She was not sure what to say so she repeated the little nonsense things that Alhraed sometimes said to her when she was in the nether world between sleep and waking.

The lady woke up and with a little coaxing Lothíriel persuaded her to sit against the cushions and eat some of the broth. When she was finished Lady Edlyn spoke for the first time.

Her voice was hoarse as she said, "I cannot thank your highness enough for your kindness. I must be a terrible burden to you."

"Oh yes," said Lothíriel cheerily, "But not a burden I resent. Here have some more broth. Ioreth told me that you were to eat as much of it as possible. It does not look very nice but I suppose it does the more good for that."

Lady Edlyn grimaced and shook her head, "Truth be told it does not taste very nice either."

Lothíriel looked at the bowl of watery broth. It was a faint yellow colour and had bits of vegetable floating morosely in it. In fact it looked a bit like – "Vomit," she said decisively, "It looks like vomit. How is it supposed to make you feel better when it looks like the symptom of a disease itself?"

Lady Edlyn chuckled and picked some up in her spoon only to let it dribble back into the bowl with a plopping sound.

"What you'd probably prefer," Lothíriel considered, "is some honey cakes."

She leapt from her chair and walked to her room through the conjoining door, bustling back in again a minute late with a small tray of the sweet cakes. She sat with the tray on her lap and passed one to Lady Edlyn.

"The servants bring me them for breakfast," she explained, "but I don't like to eat in the morning so I hide them."

"Why do you not just tell them you do not want breakfast?" asked Lady Edlyn.

Lothíriel blushed and laughed sheepishly, "I don't want to upset anyone."

"That," said Lady Edlyn frankly after swallowing a piece of cake, "Is the most absurd thing I've ever heard. Are you telling me you'd rather hide food than admit you don't want it?"

"Yes," said Lothíriel in mock anger, "I'm a kind hearted soul."

"So you are!" Laughed the Lady Edlyn, "Kind hearted and ever so slightly ridiculous!"

"_You _ought to be thankful for my kind heart," Lothíriel pointed out.

"Oh, I am," said Lady Edlyn seriously, "Oh, your highness, I am."


End file.
